


Through a Glass, Darkly

by mainecoon76



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Holmes' POV, M/M, alternative Interpretation of the Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I feel that I am looking into a dusty mirror, and looking back at me is a twisted image of myself. It is the image of a man I could have become… Perhaps it is even the image of the man I am destined to be.”</i> Watson wrote down the events leading up to Reichenbach, but sometimes even those who are closest to us are not privy to our deepest secrets. This is Holmes’ POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through a Glass, Darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavvyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/gifts).



> Betaed by mrs_sweetpeach, who once again spent a lot of time correcting my mistakes and discussing tricky dialogue (which was fun and led to significant improvement). Thanks!

It is very fortunate for society that I am not a criminal. 

I have come to that conclusion some time ago, and on occasions like this, I am acutely aware of the fact. Maybe it comes as a by-product of my unique profession to recognize the ample opportunities to commit crime without being apprehended, provided one has sufficient genius and knowledge to use to one’s advantage. Unfortunately one also has to possess a rather lower moral standard than I have chosen for myself, and thus I am reduced to lounging about idly in my flat when the criminal world has nothing to offer. I must confess that even occasional visits of concerts and art exhibitions have lost their appeal now that I must go alone more often than not, and the tones produced by my Stradivarius sound miserly and lethargic when I play without an audience. 

It is still quite beyond me why I should mind that my fellow-lodger decided to get married, and why I should still mind after more than a year. I did, after all, contently live alone for many years; yet now the flat is strangely empty without him, and I still feel keenly the lack of his unobtrusive presence in the sitting-room, of a vis-à-vis during mealtime, of a steadfast companion for whatever venture crosses my path. Only too rarely does he nowadays share my cases. But my brain has, in any case, always dominated my heart, and thus I spend my time more deeply immersed in my work and scientific forays than I have before. 

Yet, in the process of my isolated studies, I make a startling discovery.

At first it is not more than a hunch, a strange likeness between cases that suggests an underlying structure, a pattern of thinking so _outré_ that I doubt anyone other than myself could have recognized it. It weaves together cases which appear to have nothing at all in common, and, on closer observation, it permeates at least half of all criminal proceedings during the last seven years. If this is indeed a pattern, it is created by an immensely powerful force, wielded by an extraordinary mind - a mind like my own. The idea fascinates me like nothing else has during this past dismal year.

 

I do not have to wait long until I identify another piece of the puzzle.

“What I do not understand,” says Mr. Merryweather, director of the City and Suburban Bank, “is how this fellow… whatever his name was…”

“John Clay,” Watson supplies helpfully.

“Clay,” Merryweather continues with an air of indignation, “learned about the French Gold. The fact that we were to receive it, as well as the date of its arrival, were strictly secret.”

We – that is, Mr. Merryweather, Watson and myself – are standing in the cellar of the aforementioned bank, while the unfortunate Mr. Clay is currently being led away in handcuffs by Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard. 

His ingenious invention of the so-called “Red-Headed League” to lure the rather simple-minded Mr. Jabez Wilson out of his shop, with the ultimate purpose of digging a tunnel and robbing the bank, was honestly impressive. Even I am slightly surprised, although I knew that Clay possesses one of the finest minds in London.

Merryweather has a point, though. Clay may be intelligent, but the fact that a considerable number of gold coins had recently arrived from France could not have been passed to him through sheer luck.

“Secrets have a way of leaking out, Mr. Merryweather,” Watson suggests, exchanging a meaningful glance with me. I have studied his facial expressions for years, and I can tell that by the slight quirk of his eyebrow that, polite though he is, his opinion of the director is not flattering. He considers Merryweather a pompous fool. I am inclined to agree with him, but I can see no reason to doubt the man’s words.

“Undoubtedly,” I agree. “The question remains who could have gathered knowledge of it.”

“My dear sir, if you are accusing me of an indiscretion…”

“By no means,” Watson interrupts him, clearly amused by the man’s bristle. “We are just considering all possible events, unlikely as they may be.“

Mr. Merryweather looks affronted, but I cannot help but smile at my friend’s cheerfulness. He catches my eye again, and once again I am painfully aware how much I have become attached to him; more attached than I had ever considered possible, more so, even, than society deems appropriate between two respectable gentlemen. Perhaps it is better for both of us that he has left our lodgings, lest my weakness become known to him and elicit his disgust. Thus I cherish these occasions of camaraderie which almost make me forget that I will have to go home alone.

“Only three of my closest confidants and myself were privy to the information,” Merryweather replies stiffly. “I am sure you will agree that all of us are above suspicion.”

My friend leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, looking unconvinced. Meanwhile, my mind is already listing the possibilities. It is indeed unlikely that John Clay could offer a powerful incentive to a gentleman in the position of Mr. Merryweather or one of his colleagues. There must have been employees of the Bank of France who knew about the transfer, but they would very likely be confined to an equally illustrious circle. These circumstances suggest another conclusion.

I can feel a wave of excitement washing over me. “Think, Watson,” I demand. “Think! How would a criminal individual be able to gather such knowledge?”

“Bribe,” Watson offers at once, but then he perceives the slight shake of my head and hesitates. 

“No,” he continues, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Not if the only initiates are wealthy and influential enough to be immune to bribe, as it seems to be the case.”

“Precisely,” I agree, “which leaves another opportunity, being…?”

My friend stares at me, thinking hard. I love to watch him apply my methods, even if I sometimes forget that his thoughts tend to run along far more conventional lines than my own. Still, he usually underplays his intelligence, for he is quite an astute companion.

“Infiltration,” he says at last, proving my point. “But Holmes, this is a most influential group of people. To gain access to such a circle is near impossible.”

“It is certainly beyond the power of an individual criminal,” I concede. “It could be, on the other hand, well within the scope of a powerful criminal syndicate led by an outstanding intellect.”

“You mean that Clay was only an agent,” Watson says slowly. “Someone else pulled the strings.”

_Someone else,_ adds a voice inside my mind, _who is powerful enough to infiltrate a most exclusive circle of banking directors, and creative enough to invent the Red Headed League._

_“Novel,”_ I breathe, my voice rough with admiration. I look over to Watson to catch the look of awe on his face that is so endearing to behold. What I see instead, before he quickly controls his features, is a look of blatant alarm.

 

There are other occasions, and I recognize them with increasing frequency. I admit that I am purposefully beginning to search out mysteries that bear the artist’s touch, even if they may seem of little significance, and ignore urgent appeals by Lestrade and Gregson. I am reading the papers more thoroughly than ever, reflecting for hours on the agony column, and I have instructed my Irregulars to keep their eyes and ears open for any unusual proceedings, with the prospect of a generous reward. I have never been a sound sleeper, but now it happens more often than not that I ignore my bedroom in favour of my case notes, tables and diagrams, and fall asleep on the settee when my body is unable to keep up functioning in the desired way. Lately I have noticed worried glances of my acquaintances of Scotland Yard, and Lestrade actually asked me if he could be of assistance to me in any matter. This affair surpasses the powers of the Yard, and in any event I prefer to keep it to myself. Watson says nothing, but I can see the small crease between his eyebrows deepen whenever he looks at me. Still, he lets me have my way, as it is his habit.

I do, in any case, attract someone else’s attention.

Not long after the affair of the engineer’s thumb I receive a missive of the most remarkable kind. The paper is cheap and indistinctive, and written on it - in black ink, by a right-handed man of a bold nature – is one line of alphanumeric code, signed by the name _Fred Porlock_. It takes me almost a week to work out the rules for breaking this code, including two visits to the British Museum, seven hours in the British Library, and a visit to my brother, but I am proud to say that I succeed in the matter. The answer to my conundrum consists of a single word.

_“Moriarty”_.

 

Fred Porlock becomes my associate in my lonely struggle against ennui. He sends me notes, most of them coded, others consisting of a few plain words; sometimes there are telegrams, sometimes letters, and occasionally notes handed in by ragged looking boys who will not talk of their employer. I cherish every one of them. They are puzzles, genuine challenges for my mind, and they all point to some criminal conundrum which I am clearly meant to solve. I always succeed. When autumn turns to winter I have come to the point where I eagerly await Porlock’s missives, and my black moods become more paralyzing than ever when I hear nothing of him for more than a few days after the successful solution of a case.

I even tell Watson about him eventually, or rather I tell him what Porlock wishes me to believe. “He is an associate of the greatest criminal of our time,” I say. “He must have some rudimentary aspirations towards right, so he has once or twice given me advance information which has been of value.” 

The Doctor’s eyes narrow at the description. “It is always useful to have confederates,” he remarks lightly, but on his face I can read disgust. This brave and noble man has no tolerance for traitors.

I do not tell him the truth of what I know. I do not wish him to be aware of the game we are playing, Porlock and I; I am certain he would not approve, though I cannot say whether reservation or worry would be foremost on his mind. It is not something I care to find out. 

 

Later I conclude that it is best my friend does not know the truth. I have never, in all those years I have known him, seen my Watson so livid. 

“Pray tell me, Holmes,” he demands, and his face is paler than I have ever seen it before, “what on earth have I done to deserve this?”

I did not anticipate this as a result of one of my most ingenious successes to date. This time Porlock’s challenge came nearer than ever to actually threatening my life, and not only was I able to identify and neutralize the threat, but I did also, in a feat of brilliance, lure the would-be murderer into confession by pretending that he had successfully infected me with a terminal disease, and was facing a dying man. Unfortunately Watson takes offense at the fact that I deluded him as well, and he refuses to listen to reason.

“I did not mean to scare you, my dear man,” I assure him. “The fact remains that you are utterly incapable of acting, and I had to rely on your credibility. The whole plan depended on it.”

“The plan, yes,” my friend returns in a toneless voice. “Has it not crossed your mind that I... oh, never mind. Probably not.”

“I owe you a thousand apologies, Watson,” I offer, largely because I am not sure what else might appease him. My attempt is not effective.

“It seems that I have been laboring under a misapprehension,” Watson continues, his voice growing stronger and harsher with each word. “I thought that, even though you yourself are immune to emotional responses, you would be able to respect them in other men. I thought you considered me a true friend, as opposed to a pawn who is to be manipulated to obey your wishes. I beg your pardon; it shall not happen again.”

I feel a sting at his words, but I have to confess that, while I know that they are not true, the actual truth may be even worse. It is not that I do not respect his feelings, difficult as they are sometimes for me to understand. There are, in fact, few things that matter more to me than Watson’s well-being. I did not mean to manipulate him; the truth is that, in this particular case, I did not even consider how my act might affect him. So caught up was I in my game that I forgot to pay attention to my dearest friend’s interests.

“You misunderstand me, Watson,” I object. “May I suggest that I explain to you the finer points of this affair over dinner at Simpson’s? If we do not linger too long, there might even be time for this evening’s concert in Albert Hall. It seems that I owe you that much.”

“You owe me nothing, Holmes,” Watson returns, and I can see that my efforts to placate him have been fruitless. He is still pale, and his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes betray his fury. “I shall indeed go out tonight,” he informs me coldly. “With Mary. Someone has to recompense her for being worried sick today. I have a mind to recompense myself, as well.”

“My dear fellow,” I begin, but Watson does something he has never done before: he simply walks out on me. “Good evening, Holmes,” he cuts me off in mid-sentence, and then he strides out of my bedroom, closing the door with rather more force than necessary. 

“Watson!” I shout after him, but the footsteps on the stairs do not slow down, and moments later I hear the sound of the front door slamming shut. I am left standing as I was, tightly wrapping my dressing gown around myself to fend off the sudden chill. All at once my triumph has a decidedly stale aftertaste.

Later that evening I receive another of Porlock’s telegrams. The message, once again consisting of only one word, is not coded.

_“Brilliant.”_

It means that he knows I know.

 

Watson forgives me eventually, as he always does, but nevertheless I see little of him during the days and weeks that follow. Instead I am graced with the visit of the French ambassador, who requests my assistance in a matter of the utmost significance. The case is too important to ignore, and apart from that I am interested in the fact that it once again concerns a major intrigue at the Banque de France. 

The basic premise of this case is clear to me within two days of my stay in Paris; still it takes me almost four weeks of tireless work and a journey around France to convict and hunt down Monsieur Renaud, the high-ranking appointee who is responsible for the fraud, and who was also, as I suspected, the weak link in the affair of the Red Headed League. Eventually I succeed with a flourish, thereby earning the respect and gratitude of my Grandmother’s home country and proving once more that I am more than a match for the criminal genius who, in this case, is not pleased by my interference.

Renaud is freed from French custody in a spectacular coup on the day after his arrest. Hardly a week later is his mangled body found hanging from a street lamp right in front of the French embassy in London. I am called to inspect the location, and I can attest that his remains are not a pretty sight. If I have been in doubt before as to how his employer reacts to failure, I have my answer now.

 

Later that same day, on a warm April afternoon that carries more than the first promise of spring, Mrs. Hudson informs me that a gentleman wishes to make my acquaintance.

I know who he is the moment he walks through the door of my sitting room, and although I have expected him for some time, I still feel startled at the sight of him. His presence means that the events of the past months are about to culminate, and this culmination is likely to be a dramatic one, whatever form it may take. Besides, although I had, through my research, acquired a rough idea of his physical appearance, I am slightly surprised at the striking figure he presents. He is as tall and thin as I am myself, though several years older, and his face might be called handsome were it not for the arrogant streak around his mouth and the cold, calculating look in his deep set grey eyes. His smooth and elegant movements remind me of a snake that is about to strike.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” he greets me in a pleasant, musical voice. “I am extraordinarily pleased to make your acquaintance at last. You do know that it is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms in the pockets of one’s dressing gown?”

I return his polite smile and place my weapon on my desk beside me. “Professor James Moriarty,” I say with a slight bow. “Or do you prefer to be addressed by the name of Fred Porlock?”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, I had wondered how long it would take you to look through my alias. I must say that you have exceeded my expectations, in this respect just as in every other. I am, if you allow me to say so, most deeply impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you are welcome.” He looks around curiously, running a finger across my Stradivarius that is lying on the mantelpiece. “I have heard about your various talents, Mr. Holmes, and that they also include the fine arts… but I digress,” he interrupts himself, turning towards me with a winning smile.

“Please take a chair,” I offer, “and say what you have come to say.”

He declines politely, instead drawing a little pocket book. “I must confess that these past few months have been an intellectual treat,” he states, casually skimming through the pages. “Never have I met a person who proved to be so worthy of my attention. The most cryptic cipher, the most bizarre evidence, the merest hint of a clue were enough for you to solve the puzzles I presented you with. I had never believed that I would find someone with whom to communicate on this level. A kindred spirit. An _equal_.”

His eyes are gleaming, and I can see an excitement in his features that very much mirrors my own. I understand what he means because these thoughts have crossed my mind as well, much as I would like to deny them.

“Now it seems to me that we have reached a crossroad, Mr. Holmes. This unfortunate incident in France has reminded me of the substantial danger in which I place myself, should I let you continue to work against me. On the other hand, it was never my motivation to destroy you. I believe that you yourself are aware of a much more profitable opportunity.”

I am aware of his purpose. Somehow I have expected it ever since I discovered the identity of my mysterious correspondent.

“You are asking me to join you.” It is a statement, not a question.

“I am presenting you the unique chance,” he nods in affirmation, “to share with me the leadership of my modest organization, the extent of which you have, I believe, vaguely outlined. Together we could rise to new heights. With your mind and mine working together, we could create something _unique_.”

His voice has a feverish intensity, and his face is alight with enthusiasm. I am suddenly reminded of the fact that he was a teacher, and most likely a good one, given his ability to fascinate an audience. I also understand why criminal subjects of all colour choose to follow him. Not only does he possess a great mind, but also a capturing personality.

“And why would I wish to join forces with you?” I demand matter-of-factly.

“Because, Mr. Holmes,” the Professor returns amiably, “I believe that you are like me.”

“What makes you believe so?”

“I have taken the liberty of doing a bit of research about your person, Mr. Holmes, as I am aware you have been doing about me as well. You abhor,” he continues softly, stepping closer and looking me intently into the eye, “the dull routine of existence. You do not fight crime because you wish to improve the world. You do so because otherwise you would waste away alone in this flat, driven to insanity by the sheer insufferableness of ennui. Your mind is a racing engine, Mr. Holmes. Without sufficient material it tears itself to pieces.”

I am an expert at controlling my expressions, and I am doing my best to appear unreadable, but I can feel my throat constrict and my skin grow cold. My logical mind provides me with two explanations.

The first is that every word he says is true. The second is that he is aware of this.

It is not so much that I wonder _how_ he knows, for I have studied him with an intensity and obsession equal to his own. Still, I had not thought it possible for him to obtain his intimate understanding of someone as private as myself.

“I know,” he answers to my unspoken question, his voice no more than a mesmerizing whisper. “I know because I have been there myself.”

Suddenly I feel that, in my dealings with this man, I am looking into a dusty mirror, and looking back at me is a twisted image of myself. It is the image of a man I could have become, had the course of my life been but a little different. Perhaps it is even the image of the man I am destined to be. I shudder at the thought, though whether from dread or excitement, I am not sure.

The Professor surveys me with a piercing glance, and I know that he is aware of my thoughts. There is something predatory in his smile.

“You need someone,” he adds in a soft, persuading tone, “who is able to alleviate your boredom. A true match for your brilliant mind. A companion who is worthy of your appreciation.”

This is the moment he makes a mistake. I know it as soon as the words have left his mouth. 

Before my inner eye I can see my brother, calm and grave and silent, looking right through me as I tell him of my crusade with disapproval written all over his face. I see the narrow face and dark eyes of Inspector Lestrade, vainly trying to conceal his worry at my unusual behaviour. I see Mrs. Hudson’s look of silent reproach as she clears away the dishes of yet another untouched dinner. Most of all I see my Watson, his face white with anger at my betrayal of his trust, which I sacrificed on the altar of my obsession.

_A companion who is worthy of your appreciation._

This has gone far enough.

The smile I give my opponent is without warmth. “No,” I tell him calmly.

A shadow of surprise flits over his expressive face. He raises one elegant eyebrow, waiting.

“All I have to say,” I continue, steadily meeting his gaze, “has already crossed your mind.”

He gives me a fake smile, but I detect a gleam of pure hatred in his eyes. “Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,” he tells me softly.

“Possibly,” I admit. “But I assure you that I stand fast.”

“What a pity.” He reaches for his hat and stick. Only the ominous look in his pale eyes betrays his fury. “A mind like yours. It seems such a waste.”

I watch him wordlessly.

“You do realize,” he remarks casually, “that this means inevitable destruction?”

“I will do my best to return the favour.”

“I should like to see you try.”

He turns around smoothly but hesitates at the door, his hand almost caressing the handle. “To think of it, Mr. Holmes,” he breathes. “We could have been _glorious_.”

I am aware of the fact.

“Good evening, Professor,” I return steadily, and watch his back as he glides out of the room without another glance.

It is only afterwards that I hear the blood pounding in my ears.

 

A week later I find myself in a pleasant hotel in Switzerland, settled on a picturesque bench that provides a breathtaking view across the valley. Watson is sitting beside me, clearly enjoying the peaceful scenery and blissfully unaware of the cursed telegram I received this morning.

I had known, of course, that time was of essence, and it had taken me only a day to set my affairs in order and Scotland Yard firmly on the heels of my nemesis. Still I had known that they could not act quite as swiftly, and that I should best get as far from London as possible if I wished to survive another week. I also understood that Watson would be safer at my side than anywhere else, for the Professor unquestionably knows of my attachment to him, and he obeyed my wish for his company without a single question. Now here we are, only he and I as it used to be, hiking and relaxing, and it would be a pleasant holiday indeed had Mycroft not sent me that fateful telegram.

“Watson,” I ask my companion thoughtfully, “do you believe there is such a thing as fate?”

He gives me a surprised look. “Possibly,” he returns. “What makes you ask, old boy?”

“Oh, just some theoretical considerations.” I pause, and he leans back on the bench, taking a sip of his wine. I do believe in fate now, even if I was never sure before. It is obvious that my life and _his_ are linked, though to what end I cannot see.

“Professor Moriarty,” I continue after a while, “appears to have had, as I told you, the best conceivable preconditions. A good background, excellent connections, an intellect the like of which I have never encountered before. Still his character turns out to be one of the most diabolical we have ever seen. Do you think a man can be doomed to become evil, Watson? With a brain like his, the criminal opportunities which our society provides must have been as obvious to him as an open book. Perhaps we cannot even blame him for being tempted to turn his extraordinary mind to crime.”

Watson gives me a piercing gaze, and I have the uncomfortable impression that he perceives more than I tell him. Then he is silent for a while, a thoughtful look flitting over his handsome face. I watch him intently, and suddenly I experience an almost overwhelming sensation of foreboding, coupled with the aching feeling of loss.

“Not for being tempted, no,” my friend tells me eventually. “But a man can always choose whether or not to give in to temptation. Take me, for example.”

“I fail to see the connection.” 

“Do you?” he inquires with a cocked eyebrow that mimics my own, his eyes gleaming merrily. “That must be a first. You told me yourself, Holmes, that when a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals. It pains me at times to think of the opportunities I wasted…”

“You, my friend,” I interject, “would make an abysmal criminal. You are the personification of decency and too honest for your own good.”

“Ah, but you underestimate me, me dear fellow,” he returns, looking rather pleased nevertheless. “I could have lived happily as one. But that was not the choice I made.”

“It certainly never crossed your mind.” The idea of Watson considering a criminal career is positively absurd, and his barely concealed amusement tells me that he is not entirely serious, yet I fail to see his point.

“Nevertheless, I _chose_ ,” Watson insists. “Does it make me a lesser man that my path in life might, under certain circumstances, have been different?”

The mere insinuation is preposterous. “Nothing could ever make you a lesser man, my friend,” I say with conviction.

“Glad to know you think so, Holmes,” Watson replies, and there is a slight quirk around his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly I realize that he understands my worries about my moral integrity more intimately than I surmised.

 

“Do you believe there is such a thing as fate, Mr. Holmes?” 

The Professor and I are standing side by side at the edge of the abyss, with only a small safety distance separating us, both looking down into the fearful torrent that is the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. I know we have reached the _grande finale_ of our game, and very likely only one of us will survive it, should it not be the end of both. Yet I feel oddly calm. I have been waiting for this ever since my brother informed me that Moriarty eluded the police, and now that Watson is safe, I am ready.

“Oh, yes,” I answer his enquiry, watching him from the corner of my eye.

“I have never been sure,” Moriarty muses, “but now I should say that the odds are in favour of it.”

“Then I suggest we find out what fate has in store for us.”

He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair, presenting the very image of a charming but absent-minded mathematics professor. 

“Yes, yes,” he mutters with a somewhat abstract air, “That is, if you haven’t changed your mind? I would be accommodating, even now. You are aware that this enterprise, entertaining as it was, has cost me a great deal…”

“I am aware that I have destroyed your network, if that is what you mean.”

“Oh, not quite so, Mr. Holmes. There are still a handful of my best men out there, and I do not like to think what they would do to you should I come to harm by your hand… Still, Mr. Holmes, the fact remains: We could be magnificent, you and I.”

I give him a cold smile in return. “I do not doubt it,” I tell him, “but I have no mind to follow you down that path.”

“Then I suppose it must be.” He nods with an air of finality. “Do you wish to leave a note for,” and here his voice assumes a sharp edge, “your companion?”

The offer appears surprisingly generous and civilized, but the meaning behind it, I realize as I see the hatred in Moriarty’s eyes and the malicious twist around his mouth, is quite a different one. Even if he had not been sure before, the fact that I have taken Watson with me on my flight convinces him.

He thinks that he has lost the game, but not against me. He believes he has lost against Watson, and I was the prize.

This conception is not only unflattering in regard to my person, but also confirms what I have suspected all along – that I need to kill this man, even if it takes my own life. It would not be enough to apprehend him and hand him over to the authorities. If Professor Moriarty lives, John Watson will never be safe.

I accept the fact with calm certainty. “If it would not be too much of an inconvenience,” I return.

“By no means.”

I have never been an expert on the field of emotions, and the parting words for my dearest friend do not come easily to me. I know that I cannot spare him the grief, but I make an effort to find some consoling words. “Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson,” I write, and then, after a moment of consideration, “My heart remains where you are, my dear fellow. Please tell my friends that I am thinking of them.” The first is a reckless phrase, and I very much hope that it will not stain his memory of me, but if I am indeed not long for this earth, I do not want my love – for love it is, I will admit as much in the face of death – my love for him to die with me, forever unacknowledged.

As to my friends, he knows who they are.

 

The end comes surprisingly quickly.

One is inclined to think that such events are of epic dimension, that the heroic clash of titans is terrifying and beautiful to behold, like the battle of Achilles and Hector, both doomed but glorious in their destruction.

The truth is that a fist fight between two middle-aged gentlemen is a dirty and decidedly inelegant affair, and this particular one is over within a few minutes. He is a daunting challenger indeed, and he very nearly succeeds in pushing me into the abyss with a quick and forceful shove at my legs, but my baritsu training has provided me with some reflexive evasive movements. I jump and roll over and keep my balance by sheer luck, while my opponent slips and slides on the moist ground, and disappears over the edge with an ugly scream. It echoes through the chasm for a few seconds; then there is only the roaring of the Falls.

For a few moments I remain lying on the ground, dirty and disheveled, my hair sticking to my face and my breath coming in painful gasps. My first conscious thought is that I am free. I am alive, and I am freed of Moriarty’s siren calls; freed also of the strange addiction that forced my mind to seek out its equal against all better judgment. The mirror is broken; the game has come to an end. I do not know that I have ever experienced such a wave of relief wash over me. I had hardly known the load I carried until it is suddenly lifted off my shoulders.

Yet in the back of my mind I know that my work is not finished.

I push myself to my feet and sit down on a rock to consider my position. There is no reason to doubt the Professor’s words about some of his best men still being at large. In that case it would be exceedingly dangerous for me to return to London. I will have to ascertain their identity and hunt them down before I can consider myself safe again. Knowing what I do about Moriarty’s organization, diminished as it may be, I am aware that the odds are not exactly in my favour.

Except…

My gaze finds the farewell note I wrote to my friend no more than ten minutes ago.

Except that no one knows that I have survived. Were I to disappear now, without leaving a trace save those that indicate a deadly struggle at the edge of a cliff, surely the general conclusion would be that I followed my enemy into the Falls. Friends and foes would consider me dead.

What a glorious opportunity.

The question remains what to do about the Doctor. There is no way I can take him with me, even if he would be willing to leave his wife behind, which is not likely. He is, in any case, a soldier and not a spy, and camouflage is not his forte. Yet he will not be safe in London should ever fall doubt on the fact of my demise. Unable as he will be to put on a convincing display of grief, my enemies, who are most certainly informed of our intimate friendship, will attempt to force my whereabouts out of him. I will return to find his lifeless body hanging from a street lamp.

It is an impossible situation, and I can think of only one solution.

I turn the letter in my hand and think of the look of horror and despair on my Watson’s face when he believed me doomed. I think of his anger when he learned of my deceit and wonder if he will forgive me a second time. And again I think of the hanged man in front of the French embassy. The decision is not a difficult one.

Carefully I place the letter on a stone and, after a moment of thought, cover it with my cigarette case. Then I begin to climb up the steep rock beside me.

 

_Epilogue_

“It is very fortunate for society that I am not a criminal,” I inform the man who is sitting beside me at the breakfast table in Baker Street. I am in the process of lamenting my lack of occupation following the apprehension of Professor Moriarty’s last followers, and the irony of my words strikes me just as I utter them.

Three years have passed since I left the note for Watson at Reichenbach Falls; three years that saw me travel as far as Tibet and Khartoum, while my heart always remained where I had known it would. Only recently I returned home to find my friend a widower, a man not broken but steeled by his sorrow. Three years of experience separate us from the men were; grief and longing, patience and endurance, remorse and forgiveness, and now, finally, love. I am a better and wiser man than I used to be.

“But you are a criminal, Holmes,” Watson reminds me fondly, and there is a tinge of bitterness in his smile. “By the standards of society, that is.”

It is true, and what is more, he shares my criminal activities, understanding the meaning of my letter more thoroughly than I would have wished. I do not worry about it as I used to; I know now that there is nothing despicable about love, that it offers a shield and protection against the dark desires that lurk in the abysmal depths of the mind. He knows it as well, and as far as I am concerned, society has no say in the matter.

“They should do us the courtesy of keeping out of our bedroom,” I tell him dryly. “Don’t you think they owe us that much?”

He laughs an honest open laughter that is a little deeper than I remember it, and I am very glad that grief has not driven it from him permanently. Then he reaches out and touches my hand. “You are an exceptional man, Holmes,” he tells me affectionately. “You possess a great heart as well as a great brain. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I briefly wonder what he may divine about the events preceding my disappearance, but then, I decide as I close my hand around his, it is of no importance. What matters to me is that he still considers me a companion who is worthy of his appreciation, just as he is of mine.


End file.
